


Simping for Vesemir

by Funkdracula



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort No Hurt, Daddy Vesemir, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Rough Sex, simping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:10:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26000128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkdracula/pseuds/Funkdracula
Summary: I am a simp for big daddy witcher man and I blame jentaro.
Relationships: Vesemir (The Witcher)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	Simping for Vesemir

You are a whore.  
Professionally, mind you.

The small town you reside in is so small that it's practically nameless- not found on maps, unknown to outsiders. A few hundred residents at most, carving out a life at the base of the Blue Mountains, to the south of the great Gwenllech.

The autumn fog settles thick along the towns main road, turning the trees and distant mountains into dark smudges and blocking the view of the way out of town, as if there was anything to be seen anyway. You rest your head on your arms in the hewn window- dreary days are often slow. The men would rather stay in the warmth of their own homes, with the warmth of their own wives, on days like this. As the fog begins to mist, then the mist turns to a relentless drizzle, the gray light of the day moves restlessly with the weather.

After long moments of admiring the rain, a figure emerges from the fog- it swirls around his legs and the drizzle creates a halo around the hood of a heavy woolen cloak. He's large, and dark; more than a forboding site in the dreary afternoon.

And then he knocks on your door.

Well, not specifically YOUR door, but he does approach the brothel, and he does knock with the back of a heavy hand.

Curiosity piqued, you pull your warm robe tighter and go to the main room. You can't recall if any of the others came in today, and the owner of the brothel is also most certainly at home on a day like this. You live here, meanwhile, and so on days like this, you serve.

In the main room, the fire crackles and dimly illuminates the space- it is cozy, filled with chairs and couches and coushions. It's not fancy or ornate, but it is warm and comfortable. He knocks once more, growing impatient.

You open the door, looking up at the imposing figure and moving aside to let him inside. You offer a hand to take his cloak. He pulls back his hood, and water falls from it to the floor, soaking the stone entryway. A flash of annoyance- you'll be the one who has to clean it- but it is brief. You finally take a glimpse of his face.

He is a tired looking older man, who could be anywhere between 40 and 70 depending on how bad the light was, with silvery white hair and a long scar through his left brow. And as he looks up to hand you his cloak, his eyes catch the fire. You can't help but give a surprised huff- golden yellow- a color you'd only heard abut in stories. A witcher. 

You turn away and blush, hoping he didn't notice, and hang his cloak to dry by the fire on a sturdy iron hook. You turn back as he is stomping his feet to get off the mud, and shaking off the rain, and your hands come to fold behind your back. "Can I offer you a drink sir?"

He looks surprised, giving a gruff reply. "So you do speak... Whatever's strong. It's colder than a witch's tit out there." You laugh- you can't help but laugh. His serious expression mixed with the absurd phrasing caught you off guard. You pour him a strong drink from the bar, and offer him a spot on a couch by the fire to warm up.

He sits with a groan and gets comfortable, and you take the moment to take in his appearance while you stoke the fire and add logs.

He was an older gentleman- although you're uncertain of how much older, since you're fairly young to begin with. His hair, silver, and peppered with brown and black. He was soft with age, what was once probably a strong, square jaw now rounded with jowl. His shoulders were large under his leather clothing, and his stomach had clearly once been strong and firm, but now a cushion of hearty meals and ale disguised his working muscle. You're sure, however, that he could still toss a horse if he felt like it.

You stand after stoking the fire, feeling for perhaps the first time in your career, uncertain of what to do next. He looks content to drink and stay warm, but you know he wouldn't have come here if that was all he intended to do. Then he looks at you, and you're frozen by those golden eyes.

"Are you the only one here?"

"Currently? Yes sir- I apologize if I wasn't your intended."

"Don't call me sir- I'm not a fan of it. Vesemir is fine. What's your name?"

You tell him and he gives a solemn nod, sitting in silence and enjoying his drink to the dregs. You offer to refill it and he accepts, looking up at you as you pour carefully into his cup.

"Sir- I mean- Vesemir... Is there anything else I can do for you?" you say, still standing to the side after putting the pitcher back. He looks thoughtful and then offers a hand- and you take it.

You only have a moment to notice his hand is calloused and hot, chapped from the cold but his skin warm all the same, before he tugs you into his lap and lets you sits, splayed across his legs.

"Keep an old man warm for the night, won't you?"

But for once, it is said, not with a perversion, but as if it is a genuine request from a lonely soul. And for perhaps the first time, when you agree, it is not just out of obligation for your job.

**Author's Note:**

> There's no notes. Enjoy.


End file.
